The night before the march, Greywick pulsed with a strange, feverish energy. Not the chaotic rush of its taverns and brothels, but something darker, heavier—like a heartbeat echoing beneath the cobblestones. For the first time, the Crimson Banner had been unfurled, a cloth of black stitched with a stark sigil of bleeding red fangs. It hung over the broken spire of the old chapel, swaying in the cold night wind like a dark omen.
Blaze stood at its base, gazing out over the massing army. The vampire spawn clustered near the front, their pale skin glowing faintly in the torchlight, unnaturally still. Behind them, the mortal elements shuffled nervously—mercenaries, thugs, deserters from local militias, and beastfolk bound by coin and fear. Their eyes darted toward the banner, toward Blaze himself, as though they were staring at something half-god, half-demon.
This would be their first true campaign beyond Greywick's borders. If they failed, they would scatter like ashes before a storm. If they succeeded… the world would begin to tremble.
"Numbers?" Blaze asked, not looking at anyone in particular. His voice cut through the murmuring like a razor.
Ronan stepped forward. The mercenary-commander had armored himself in mail, dented but polished, a bastard sword strapped across his back. His eyes were hard, practical, but tinged with something close to respect. "Two hundred fit to march. A mix of eighty mercenaries, forty beastfolk from Asha's pack, sixty men from the Crimson Hand, and twenty spawns, counting Garrick."
A ripple of unease went through the gathered mortals at the last words. Twenty spawns. Twenty predators walking among them, their hunger palpable. Blaze could practically taste the fear rolling off the men—it thickened the air, a cloying sweetness. He allowed it to linger before speaking.
"Two hundred," Blaze murmured. "Against a fortress of Light."
Ledo shifted nervously, his thick fingers fidgeting at the hilt of his knife. The gang boss had grown fatter on stolen power since joining Blaze, but in moments like this, the street rat beneath the swagger showed. "They say Black Dawn's walls are blessed, my lord. Paladins, priests, wards. We're walking into a meat grinder."
Garrick laughed—a low, animal growl that sharpened into words. "Good. More meat for me." His eyes glowed faintly, crimson bleeding into yellow, the reflection of a predator barely disguised. "I'll climb their walls and rip the priests' throats out myself."
"Brute force." Ronan's lips curled with disdain. "That will get you roasted alive before you set foot on the battlements. We need order, not savagery."
The two men glared at one another—Ronan the disciplined soldier, Garrick the unpredictable beast—and for a moment Blaze simply let it hang. Conflict forged sharper steel. But only if controlled.
"Enough." Blaze's voice cracked like thunder. Both men dropped their gazes at once. "Ronan, you will keep the line steady. Garrick, you will break what steadiness cannot reach. Both of you will obey, or I will show you which of us is truly disposable."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the torches seemed to gutter lower.
Asha broke it with a step forward, the wolf-blooded beastwoman tilting her head toward Blaze. Her silver hair was braided back, her armor stripped for speed, her eyes glimmering in the dark. "My scouts have already returned. Black Dawn sits on a rise two days east, overlooking the river. Stone walls, twenty feet high, runed with holy wards. Garrison of at least a hundred paladins, fifty clerics, and more militia within. Supply caravans come from the south road every three days." She paused, her nose twitching faintly. "They expect us. Their walls reek of fear hidden behind faith."
Blaze's lips curved faintly. He liked her instincts. "Then they know the inevitable. But knowledge will not save them."
At dawn, the army began to move.
The march was a strange procession: the disciplined cadence of Ronan's mercenaries, the uneven swagger of Ledo's gang, the lithe lope of Asha's beastfolk, and the unnatural stillness of the vampire spawn who seemed to glide more than walk. The Crimson Banner led the way, carried by a spawn whose pale hands never trembled under its weight.
The road east wound through jagged hills and frost-cracked trees. Snow clung stubbornly to the rocks, turning the world pale beneath the cold sun. Blaze walked at the center, his cloak of black and crimson billowing behind him. He said little, but his presence was enough to drive the army onward. Whenever fatigue slowed them, he would glance at the weakest—just a glance—and suddenly men who had been stumbling pushed forward with new strength, as if their lives depended on it.
Which, of course, they did.
By the second night, fires burned in a dozen small camps across the hillside where the army had stopped. Blaze stood apart, his lieutenants gathered around him. Asha knelt over a crude map drawn into the dirt with a dagger.
"The southern ravine is passable if we strip armor," she murmured. "My people can slip through under nightfall, strike the supply lines, sow chaos within. Garrick can scale the west wall—it's unguarded at night, but heavily warded. He'll need you to break them first."
Ronan folded his arms. "The main force will take the front. Battering rams, ladders, shield walls. It'll be bloody, but with discipline we can keep losses down."
Ledo cleared his throat, uneasy. "And what of… holy fire?"
Blaze's gaze slid to him, and Ledo flinched violently.
"Holy fire will burn," Blaze said simply. "It is meant to. That is why you are here."
The gang boss paled, realizing the implication—his men were to be shields, fodder. But Blaze's next words dangled hope like poisoned honey.
"Yet those who endure, those who bleed for the Court, will find reward. Coin. Flesh. Or the gift of eternity itself." His crimson eyes caught the firelight, burning like coals. "I do not abandon those who prove themselves."
The murmurs spread, whispers of promise. Some looked fearful, others eager. Hope was as potent a leash as terror.
When the army finally crested the final hill, the fortress of Black Dawn came into view.
It loomed against the horizon—walls of black stone, etched with runes that shimmered faintly with golden light. The banners of the Church flapped in the cold wind: a radiant sunburst on white. Watchfires burned along the battlements, and even from a distance Blaze could see the silhouettes of armored paladins pacing the walls. Bells tolled faintly, the sound carrying across the valley like a cold hymn.
The Crimson Army stopped in awe and dread. Some muttered prayers. Others gripped their weapons tighter.
Blaze only smiled, the curve of his lips as cold as the wind.
"This," he said softly, his voice carrying through the hush, "is where the shadow swallows the light."
And with that, the Siege of Black Dawn began to take shape.
The morning of the siege broke cold and sharp, the sky painted in streaks of ash-gray clouds. No sun pierced through—the heavens themselves seemed to withhold their blessing from the fortress of Black Dawn. Blaze stood at the forefront of his gathered army, the Crimson Banner behind him snapping in the wind like a tear in the world's veil.
Before them, the fortress loomed. Its walls glimmered faintly, etched with golden runes that pulsed like veins of fire beneath the stone. Holy wards. A constant, defiant reminder that the gods' reach was here, waiting, daring him to try and breach it.
Blaze inhaled deeply. The air reeked of a thousand conflicting smells: the raw stench of fear and faith from the paladins preparing their prayers, the acrid sweetness of mortals clutching to desperate hope, and the faint copper tang of spilled blood from a few nervous cuts among his own men. His senses drank it in.
The Crimson Court had come to test its fangs.
"Move the shield wall forward."
At his command, Ronan barked orders, his mercenaries falling into a disciplined, grinding formation. They hefted wooden pavises reinforced with iron, locking them edge to edge until a bristling wall of steel advanced across the valley floor. Behind them shuffled the gang soldiers—less orderly, but still carrying ladders and crude rams cobbled together during the hasty march.
Asha's beastfolk skulked to the sides, waiting for the signal to fan out. Garrick was already gone, a hulking shadow scaling a ravine slope toward the west flank, his spawns following like predators on a coordinated hunt.
Blaze walked forward alone, ignoring the nervous glances his soldiers shot him. He stopped only when the ward-glow from the walls shimmered faintly against his skin, prickling like hot needles. He raised his gaze to the battlements.
Paladins lined the walls, shields raised, spears gleaming. Clerics in white robes stood interspersed, clutching staffs that glowed with golden light. And at the center, a high-priest in gilded vestments lifted his hands toward the sky, chanting words that thrummed in the marrow of the world.
The wards flared brighter, gold veins pulsing against the black stone.
The first arrow flew.
It struck with a hiss of holy fire, embedding itself in the dirt at Blaze's feet. The ground sizzled. Behind him, a murmur of fear rippled through the ranks. Blaze's lips curved faintly.
"They are eager."
He raised a single hand. Shadows spilled outward, coiling around his fingers like smoke. He clenched them into a fist.
"Break them."
The army surged.
The shield wall advanced, arrows raining down. Each shaft burned with consecrated light, punching through wood and flesh alike. Men screamed, shields cracked, and gaps opened in the formation. Ronan roared, dragging them back into line by sheer force of will. "Hold! Hold, you bastards, or you'll burn alive anyway!"
Ledo's gang stumbled forward behind them, ladders banging on the stones as they tried to keep pace. Some hesitated under the rain of arrows, until Blaze's gaze fell on them. His crimson eyes glowed like coals, and suddenly hesitation vanished. They scrambled forward like whipped dogs, driven more by terror of him than of the paladins above.
From the flanks, Asha's beastfolk erupted. They sprinted low to the ground, darting across the rocks with inhuman agility. The archers above pivoted to follow, but the wolves were already among the outer defenses, dragging guards off watchposts and silencing screams with tearing claws.
Then came the first real clash.
The shield wall smashed against the gates, rams thudding against the wood reinforced with holy sigils. Sparks of gold erupted with each blow, scorching the hands of those who held the beams. Screams rang out as flesh blistered and burned, men dropping away with smoking stumps. Others rushed to replace them, howling curses, driven onward by fear, fury, and the promise of reward.
From the walls, the clerics raised their staves in unison. Golden fire roared to life, arcing down like rivers of flame. It struck the front lines, setting men ablaze. Their screams pierced the valley, flesh melting from bone. The shield wall wavered.
Blaze stepped forward.
Shadows poured from his form, coiling outward in a tide that swallowed fire. The golden flames hissed and sputtered against the dark, thinning, breaking apart like smoke in a storm. He lifted his hand, fingers snapping outward. The shadows surged upward, lashing the battlements like serpents. Paladins screamed as the tendrils wrapped around their legs, dragging them from the walls. They plummeted, bodies breaking against the ground below.
The sight reignited the Crimson Army. Cheers, savage and frenzied, rose beneath the walls.
"Lord!" Asha's voice cut through the din, sharp and steady. She had scaled part of the southern ravine, her beastfolk already snapping at the heels of fleeing militia. "The wards at the west wall are weaker. They burn, but they falter!"
Blaze turned his gaze toward the west. Garrick had reached the battlements, his monstrous form wreathed in shadow as he tore at glowing runes with his claws. Each strike made the wards flare and crackle, but he endured the pain, roaring like a beast in defiance of the light. His spawns followed, their flesh blistering under holy fire, yet they climbed still, relentless.
"Good," Blaze murmured. His eyes narrowed. "Then bleed them."
He stretched his arms wide.
The ground trembled.
From beneath the soil, shadows surged upward like geysers. They coiled around ladders, forming skeletal shapes of pure darkness. Spectral warriors, faceless and jagged, rose among his soldiers, bearing weapons of night. Their shrieks tore across the battlefield, sending waves of terror through the militia on the walls.
"Advance," Blaze whispered, his voice carrying like thunder. "Advance, and drink deep."
The Crimson Army obeyed.
Chaos devoured the battlefield.
Ronan's mercenaries stormed forward, ramming ladders against the walls. Some burned alive under holy fire, but others reached the top, clashing with paladins in brutal, close combat. Steel rang against steel, curses clashing with hymns.
Ledo's men swarmed behind, driven mad with fear. They poured up ladders in frenzied waves, hacking and stabbing at anything in reach. The walls became a meat-grinder—men pulled up, cut down, replaced by another desperate climber.
Asha's beastfolk ripped into the outer defenses, tearing paladins from behind, dragging clerics screaming into the shadows. Blood slicked the stones where they passed.
And Garrick—Garrick stood atop the western wall, his claws buried in the runes. With a final roar, he ripped one free. The ward shuddered, then shattered in a burst of golden sparks. Holy light flickered. The glow across the fortress dimmed.
For the first time, the defenders faltered.
The high-priest raised his staff, his voice a booming hymn that resonated across the battlefield. Golden fire surged from his hands, a torrent of divine wrath that swept across Blaze's advancing soldiers. Dozens were consumed instantly, their bodies turning to ash.
But Blaze was waiting.
He stepped into the path of the fire, his shadows wrapping around him like a cloak. The golden flames struck him full-force, searing against his skin. Pain screamed through him—his flesh blistered, his veins writhed. For a heartbeat, it felt like the gods themselves clawed at his essence.
Blaze's teeth bared in a snarl. He forced his shadows outward, meeting fire with abyss. The clash split the air, sending shockwaves rippling across the field. Men fell to their knees, clutching their heads as the collision of power rattled their souls.
The priest's eyes widened. "Monster—"
Blaze's gaze snapped up, crimson burning against gold. His lips curved into a cruel smile.
"Yes."
With a roar, he surged forward, shadows lashing upward to seize the priest himself.
The fortress of Black Dawn had begun to crack.
The fortress walls screamed.
Stone shuddered beneath claw and steel, blood soaked into its ancient mortar, and the once-gleaming wards sputtered like candles caught in a storm. The air was thick, choked with smoke, ash, and the thick, copper stench of blood.
Blaze advanced step by step across the battlefield, shadows curling around him like an unholy tide. Each arrow aimed his way withered mid-air. Each prayer uttered from trembling clerics broke on his presence, the words caught in their throats.
"Push!" Ronan's roar carried across the chaos. His mercenaries hammered at the gates, their shields charred black but still raised. Behind them, Ledo's gang foamed at the mouth, scrambling to prove themselves under Blaze's crimson gaze. Every man among them feared being noticed for cowardice more than they feared dying under holy fire.
Above, Garrick had become a nightmare. His hulking frame loomed against the dimming wards, claws tearing, fangs snapping. He fought like a beast let loose from hell itself, dragging paladins off the wall and smashing them to pulp against the stone. Every corpse he tossed down fed his hunger, his shadow-empowered flesh knitting closed the burns and cuts of battle.
At the south wall, Asha and her beastfolk pack had ripped through the defenders, their howls echoing like war-drums. She led them with savage grace, her twin blades flashing as she cut down clerics mid-prayer, their holy light snuffed before it could even flare. Blood slicked her jaw, staining her furred ears.
The fortress was breaking.
With a thunderous crack, the western gates gave way. The ram had splintered against holy sigils for what felt like hours, but Garrick's final ward-rending roar had weakened the glow enough. Now, with Ronan's disciplined shove, the beams split apart, wood shattering in a hail of splinters.
The Crimson Army howled.
They poured through the breach in a flood of crimson banners and black steel. Paladins met them head-on, their shields gleaming gold, voices raised in hymns. For a heartbeat, the clash was evenly matched—holy light against sheer, feral rage.
But then the shadows came.
Blaze raised both hands, and the very air darkened. A tide of blood-soaked mist rolled from him, twisting into forms that writhed and shrieked. Skeletal phantoms of shadow dove into the melee, clawing at defenders, rending flesh from bone. The paladins staggered as their faith faltered. The hymns broke into cries of agony.
"Inside!" Ronan bellowed. "Inside, or we'll be cut down in the open!"
The Crimson Army surged into the fortress courtyards. Stone once sanctified was drowned in red. Bodies piled along the walls as screams echoed off the battlements.
At the heart of the fortress, the High Priest still stood. His golden staff burned like a second sun, casting long, wavering shadows across the courtyard. Around him rallied the last defenders—knights in polished armor, their blades infused with divine blessing, and clerics with trembling voices still trying to call upon their god.
Blaze walked toward them, each step measured, the battlefield parting before him as if he were the eye of the storm. The priest's voice rang out, cracking under strain yet filled with desperate conviction.
"Creature! The gods cast you out, and the gods shall destroy you! You cannot triumph against their light!"
Blaze's lips curved, sharp and cruel. "And yet—" his crimson eyes flared, "—here I stand. And here you kneel."
He flicked his hand. Shadows snapped out like whips, seizing paladins and hurling them into the stone. Bones cracked like kindling. One knight managed to stagger back to his feet, lifting his blessed sword with trembling arms. He charged.
Blaze met him head-on.
Steel of light clashed against shadow-forged claws, sparks exploding in the courtyard. The knight's every strike seared Blaze's flesh, holy fire hissing on his skin. But Blaze only pressed closer, forcing him back, until with a brutal wrench he tore the blade aside and sank his fangs into the man's throat. Blood spurted in a hot gush. The knight's screams cut short.
The High Priest faltered, stepping back.
"Monster," he whispered. His hands shook as he raised his staff again, golden light burning around him.
Blaze's eyes burned brighter. "Say it louder."
The priest screamed, releasing a torrent of divine fire. It surged forward, a wave of gold meant to purge sin.
Blaze answered with blood.
He raised his arms, and the blood pooled in the courtyard—the blood of the fallen, the wounded, the dying—rose like a tide. It shaped into a wall of crimson, thick and pulsing, absorbing the holy fire in a hissing storm of steam and shrieks. When the flames finally guttered out, Blaze lowered his arms, his wall dripping scarlet rain.
The priest fell to his knees, his staff slipping from his grasp.
Blaze approached slowly. "Your gods do not answer you. They never will." He crouched, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I… I hear you. And I will remember your last prayer."
The priest tried to form words, but his throat locked. Fear froze his tongue. His spirit broke before Blaze even touched him.
That was enough. Blaze's fangs pierced, and the priest's life ended in silence.
The fortress fell into quiet. Only the crackle of burning wood and the whimper of dying men remained.
On the battlements, Garrick raised his claw, dripping with gore. "Victory!" he howled, the sound reverberating through the stone.
Asha planted her blades in the ground, blood running down her arms, her fur matted. She tilted her head back and let out a long, savage wolf's howl, echoed by her surviving beastfolk.
Ronan, ever grim, stood amid his mercenaries, bloodied but steady. He gave a curt nod toward Blaze—no cheer, only cold acknowledgement.
And Ledo, trembling but triumphant, forced his gang to chant, "Crimson! Crimson! Crimson!" until the courtyard shook with the sound.
Blaze walked up the inner steps, mounting the central tower. The wind tore at his cloak as he reached the top. With a smooth motion, he raised the Crimson Banner and drove its pole into the holy stone.
The black and red cloth unfurled, snapping in the air. Against the once-holy sky, it stood as blasphemy incarnate.
The fortress of Black Dawn had fallen.
Blaze stood at the peak, gazing down at the slaughter, his army's cheers rolling up to meet him. The shadows whispered around him, hungry and triumphant. The cursed ring burned on his finger, pulsing in rhythm with his victorious heart.
This was no longer Greywick's secret war. This was declaration.
The world would hear.
The gods would see.
And Blaze would never kneel.